I’m not a teenager. I’m not retarded. I have a job. I am educated. I know how to dress. I know how to use a belt.
So, although I’m black and male and live in an urban area, I do not understand the fashion style that has plagued and embarrassed black people for nearly 20 years: Ass out pants.
Yeah, I just made up that term, but you know what I’m talking about. You see these guys with their asses out and you worry about their mental state. Are they retarded? Do they know how idiotic they look? Are those little girl jeans Lil Wayne is wearing? And since we all know anyone who wears the style means is a lawless thug, you question how can they run from the police, how can they climb into someone’s window late at night, how can Mama (Daddy certainly isn’t around) let him out looking like that? And do girls actually find the look attractive?
None of the kids I’ve asked has ever give me a satisfactory answer. “It’s comfortable,” the boys say. The girls just roll their eyes, knowing how ass out pants look, but since that’s all they have to choose from, that’s what they pick.
Last weekend, my curiosity got the best of me. I put on my elastic-band gym shorts and when I got over my mid-thigh, stopped pulling them up. My ass was out, covered only by my boxers. And it was…liberating. Oh man, it was astonishingly comfortable. I felt free. My pants were in no danger of falling. I could lift my knees high, so yes, I would be able to run from cops after the mugging I suddenly felt the compulsion to perform.
I walked around the house and then, why not, decided to venture outside. I would be as discreet as possible: My shorts were black, my underwear was black, my shirt was black. But still, would someone say something to me? Probably not. Would they look at me with disdain? Probably so.
I opened the door. And then…wait a minute. This was an experiment, but no one but me knew about it. I know people in my neighborhood, some by name, some by face. But if they don’t know this was just a test, they might think I’m retarded, that I’m the idiot.
And just like that, my courage fled. Or maybe my good sense returned. I closed the door. Sat down on my couch. And enjoyed the extreme comfort of wearing my pants like a retard. Later on, when I pulled my pants up like a normal person, they felt oddly restricting. As if they were too tight and confining.
The next day, walking around my neighborhood, I saw a group of young thugs. I knew they were thugs because they wore ass out jeans. As usual, I looked upon them with disdain. As usual, I thought they were retarded. But inside, and not even too far down, I understood.
© 2010 The Peoples News